


First Dance

by rnanqo



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Ball AU, Dancing!, F/F, The People’s Tomb Fic Jam: First, fluff!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26922622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rnanqo/pseuds/rnanqo
Summary: At the ball, to Harrow's absolute horror, Her Divine Highness requests the first dance with her.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 11
Kudos: 131





	First Dance

The ball was too loud, too bright, too much. You stood as far away from everyone else as you could, sipping at a plain water in a frilly little glass. Your faithful Ninth cavalier and retainer stood a little ways from you, conspiring. They would not succeed. You were not here to become anyone’s bride. You were not even here to dance. You were here because you had been summoned by Imperial writ, and you would leave as soon as humanly possible.

Up on a dais on some sort of throne lounged Her Divine Highness. She was speaking animatedly to a glowing Princess of Ida, so that was a done deal, then, wasn’t it? The dancing hadn’t even started, but just sew the whole rigmarole up at this point: bride found. You watched as they did some complicated sort of handshake and the Third princess blew Her Divine Highness a kiss as she walked away. Such easy familiarity. You could never.

You were busy enough watching this that you did not see your demise approaching.

Someone said, “Would the Reverend Daughter kindly join Her Divine Highness for the first dance?”

The cheerful little man peered up at you, his wispy white moustache framing his smile. You were not used to human functionaries and perhaps did not give him the respect he was due. “Why?” you said, with a scowl, and received a jab in the ribs from Aiglamene.

“Her Divine Highness has requested the Reverend Daughter join her for the first dance,” the moustachioed little man repeated, smile unwavering. “It is customary to accept.”

You looked back at your retainers. “I want to leave.”

“You must accept, my lady,” Ortus said. Typical Ortus. If you told him it was customary to, say, stone cold eat a baby, he’d be mournfully sharpening a knife before you finished your sentence.

“Go,” Aiglamene said. “Or you spent weeks learning to dance for nothing.”

It was true; you hated letting your time go to waste. And your skill. No one would have known it to look at you, draped in lace and veiling like a cobwebby coatrack, but your dancing skills were, optimistically, present. You had a basic sense of rhythm from all those years clacking prayer bones together. Aiglamene had capitalized on that by drilling you in the steps of various dances, but she drilled dancing the way she did Ortus’ perfunctory rapier sessions: no time for breaks, and no hope of success. You attacked dancing the way you did everything else, with grim precision that brooked no missteps. There was no joy, no artistry, only the quiet contentment of correct execution.

“One dance, and then we shall leave.” You used your best icy Ninth tone for this and hoped it worked.

You followed the little man through the throngs of people. They parted for you, staring. You glided to the dance floor, a _darque mysterie_ among _luminante swannes_ , and beheld your dance partner.

Up close, Her Divine Highness was sparklingly fit in ceremonial Cohort whites. There was an interesting dusting of freckles across her cheeks, and underneath a shock of red hair her eyes were—

Golden, like the sun or like honey or like both at once, or like—

You did not know what like. You had never seen anything like them before. You felt lightheaded; it was the presence of divinity, you were sure. Staring at her up close made you gasp; heat flushed your body. To be face to face with the progeny of the Resurrector Himself gave you a fluttering in your stomach, a little ecstasy.

You squashed it, though. You were here to get through one dance and that was it. You could contemplate proximity to the divine later. In private.

You and Her Divine Highness bowed to each other. She held out a white-gloved hand. You took it, and she led you into the first dance of the ball.

For the first eight measures, you were the only pair on the dance floor. Everyone else was staring at you. This was fine. You fixed your eyes slightly over the decorated shoulder of Her Divine Highness and concentrated on not tripping. You couldn’t have stumbled, though, if you’d tried: she was a firm and sure leader; it was the easiest thing in the world to let her take you around the empty dance floor. This happened in awkward silence, only the music playing, until other couples trickled in, and then the floor was full of chatter and laughter and close brushes with other peoples’ skirts. Now there was enough noise that you could ostensibly have a conversation without people hanging on every word, but you had no idea what to say.

Luckily, Her Divine Highness spoke first. “I like your paint,” she said.

“Thank you,” you replied, primly, though inside you were pleased. You hadn’t spent all those months practicing the Chain for nothing. Its delicate tracery twined around your lips and nose in becoming fashion, and you thought it complemented your features to good effect. “I like your”—she was wearing no makeup to speak of, but looked absolutely radiant anyway—“face.”

Immediately you winced. You always were too honest when you were distracted.

She laughed at you. Yes, you were definitely not doing yourself any favors.

“Thanks,” she said. “Grew it myself.”

You looked up at her, alarmed. “Did you not like the one you were born with? Why would you change—"

“Oh, no, I’m not a necromancer,” she said. “That was a joke. A bad one, I guess.”

The two of you fell into an uneasy silence, and you found yourself trying to remember how many measures you’d already danced, and how many more there were likely to be. Too many, probably. Well, you’d never have to dance with her again after this. “Why did you choose me first? You don't know me.”

“Exactly,” Her Divine Highness said, not stumbling for a second. “I don't know you, and you were all the way in the back. I thought it was sad.”

Sad. _Sad_. You contemplated stepping on her foot, but didn’t. “Social events are”—not your forte, certainly, but how to say it?—“much more subdued, on the Ninth.”

“Oh, I bet. You dance with a bunch of skulls and skeletons normally, huh?”

She twirled you, but you were not pleased, and whipped through it faster than you had to, so you could come back and glare at her. Your spotting, you knew, was excellent and quick, and you had successfully smacked her in the face with your veil.

“Hey,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Those are hurtful stereotypes.” She was absolutely right, but you weren’t about to let her know that.

“They are. I’m sorry.” She looked genuinely stricken, and wisely did not try to twirl you the next time the option came up. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s all right.” You bit your lip, and then admitted the awful truth: “I did actually practice dancing with skeletons.” And then you were both laughing. If you’d looked closely, you would have noticed that, despite your most ardent wishes, you were having a little bit of fun. “You’re only the second living person I’ve ever danced with.”

“Well, I’m honored,” she said, and dipped her head. “I hope I’m not doing too bad a job, for your second living dance partner.”

“You’re much better than the first,” you said, feeling only a little bit disloyal to Aiglamene.

She grinned at you. “All the other House heirs here, I’ve known them for years. I was really excited the Ninth was even coming to this stupid ball. I just wanted to say hello. See what you were like.”

“Well, are you pleased with what you see?”

It fell out of your mouth unbidden and you wanted to kick yourself. A smirk popped up on her face—only for a moment, but you caught it before it winked away. “I’d say I’m intrigued.”

This was going too far; you felt suddenly the warmth of her hand on your waist and wished it would—no. _No_. You didn't wish anything about it. One dance. “It was not my intent to intrigue anyone.”

“No?” She twirled you again, suddenly, and when she brought you back to her, you were a little closer than you had been before, which was both wonderful and terrible. “Parties are the most fun when you wind up doing something you didn't expect. I didn’t mean to have any fun at this ball, any more than you did, I think, but now I am. So, thanks."

The music was winding down, coming to a conclusion. You bowed—more of an anxious bob, really—and tried to escape, to collect yourself, because you were breathing too hard, and frankly turning into a bit of a mess, but she didn’t let go of your hand.

“Wait—save the last dance for me?”

She brought your black-gloved hand to her lips. You stared at her; you knew your face paint would make you look angry and untouchable, but you were in truth freaking the fuck out.

“I mean it,” she said, holding your gaze even as she let your hand fall. “I enjoyed this. My other dances are all spoken for, but I’d like to dance with you again.”

“Really?”

“Of course really,” she said, laughing. Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she winked at you as she turned away, and you found yourself aching, bereft. Perplexed, even. This was not a feeling you liked, the feeling of something you wanted very much being taken away as soon as you realized you wanted it.

Aiglamene came up behind you and said, “All right. You’ve done it. Now we can leave.”

You watched the next dance start up, something that involved forming two lines and weaving them together. The dancers mingled and parted and came together again, the colors of their ludicrous garb mixing and flowing and clashing. It was all too loud and all too bright, but your eyes were drawn to the spot of white among them.

"No," you said. "I think I'll stay.”


End file.
